


Hold On For Tonight

by Amyreadsandstresses



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Greg Lestrade is a Good Friend, Greg is Sherlock's dad basically, Hurt Sherlock Holmes, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Torture, Light Angst, Paternal Greg Lestrade, Post-Reichenbach, Scars, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Sherlock is a Mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:54:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29794974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amyreadsandstresses/pseuds/Amyreadsandstresses
Summary: “Sherlock”, he tried again, shaking the shoulder a bit, “talk to me Sunshine.”“I need”, it was a whisper, so low he hardly caught it at all.What do you need, lad?”“No Graham, I…”, Sherlock swallowed audibly from where he was, eyes still closed. When he spoke again, it was with an old misery he had hoped never to hear again, “I need.”--Greg Lestrade has an unexpected visitor in the middle of the night; it's not the first time and it probably won't be the last. But is the repetition of an old ritual a much direr situation than he had originally thought?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade
Comments: 2
Kudos: 42





	Hold On For Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> I am apparently incapable of writing fluff, so I made this instead. Hope you like it and thank you for reading :)
> 
> Sadly I do not own Sherlock.
> 
> Please, do not copy my work nor post it on another site.

Finally,  _ finally, _ the case was closed. It had taken them weeks to find the suspect of what had seemed as a straightforward case of breaking and entering only to later turn into a teenage cult conspiracy and a kidnapping. Even Sherlock had been stuck for a good minute. But after endless days of work that spilled into long after midnight hours spent in his office surrounded by files from the ’70s, they had found a lead, a suspect, and finally, a conviction. 

Of course, because his life could never be easy, now there were mounds of paperwork sitting on his desk. Christ. He hated paperwork. And of course, His Highness couldn’t possibly be bothered to give more than his statement; nevermind half the forms in the stack were meant to keep the Consulting Detective out of a holding cell. 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Greg Lestrade sighed and dropped yet another file on his chair. This was gonna take all night. 

“Sir”, he turned at the rapp on the door to find Sally Donovan standing outside his office, a grimace on her face and three more files under her arm. 

“More?”, she looked at him in pity and left the files at the top of the ever-growing pile.

“Sorry.” 

Greg let out a long-suffering sigh and watched the last hopes for a restful night go down the drain. He started stacking up the yellow binders and placing them inside the cardboard box he often used to take files out of the yard, usually on the way to Baker Street. 

“Want some help with that?”, Sally asked from her place on the opposite side of the desk.

“It’s fine, I’m takin’ these home.” 

“That’s fine, I’ll come with.” He turned to her so fast he was sure his neck would be sore for a day or two. He’d found a good partner in Sally, she was a good detective, would make a good Inspector when her time came, he was sure. That didn’t mean one took a colleague home, even if it was just paperwork.

“I don't think that’s appropriate, Sargeant.”

“Only if we make it inappropriate, and I’m not planning to”, she cocked an eyebrow at him, remarkably like one Consulting Detective, “are you?”

“Alright, alright fine”, Greg nodded, holding onto the cardboard box and surveying the room. “God knows I could use an extra pair of hands.''

“Let’s go, then.”

  
  


Greg unlocked the door to his sad excuse of a flat and held it open for Sally to go in, a second box in her hands. He held back a wince when he spotted the basket of dirty laundry resting by the bookcase in the living room. Thankfully, Sally pretended not to notice.

“Right, so kitchen’s here”, Greg said as he set down his boxes on the small kitchen table. “Do you want anything?”

“Water, please.” Sally followed suit, setting her own box down and taking a seat in one of his wooden chairs.

“Sure.”

She started unpacking the files, distributing them in three different piles, most likely by date, while he served them both large glasses of water and put the kettle on for himself. 

Usually, he would grab something stronger to drink on a night like this, but Donovan didn’t need to know that. Unless she brought it up, the whiskey would stay where it was.

He served a single cup of tea after asking Sally, yet again, if she didn’t want one for herself. She didn’t. 

They each took one end of the small table and a box of manila files. Greg sipped his tea as he worked, rubbing his eyes to keep the words from dripping into one another. He might need to get glasses soon. His sister would never let him live it down. Glasses would look terrible on him, he just knew it. Sally worked quietly by his side; reading, signing, writing and filing, then starting over. It was… not terrible, having some help on a night that would’ve otherwise been nothing but frustrations in his dark, lonesome living room, with the telly playing in the background and a bit more than two fingers of whiskey in his favourite tumbler. 

It was nearing ten when a set of footsteps started approaching down the hall to his flat; a pair of footsteps he had grown to recognize anywhere. Greg sighed, setting his cup down and closing the file he was working on; he sat back on his chair, looking straight at his door and waited. 

It took only a few seconds for the shadow of two feet to appear under his door, then came the familiar clicks and scratches of a lockpicking set.

“Sir”, Donovan whispered beside him, “someone's picking your lock.”

“I know.”

“Should I get out my gun, sir?”, she started leaning back, reaching for her belt.

“No need”, Greg muttered. It would hardly help to pull a gun on his guest, he would’ve tried it years ago if he thought it could work at all, “I know exactly who that is.”

Sally frowned at him but stayed where she was, looking intently at the door. Greg thought back to the last time he’d been to the store; he had bought some of the stuff the other one would occasionally deign himself to eat. There should still be most of it in the kitchen. 

It took five more seconds -he counted- for the lock to yield; the door sweeped open and inside came one Sherlock Holmes, covered in that ridiculous coat of his, his curls sitting wildly atop his head. It  _ had _ been a bit windy outside, after all. Sherlock walked into the flat, kicking the door closed behind him and mindlessly headed to the kitchen, without looking up from the floor. Thinking then. Greg cleared his throat, making the younger man look up and stop midstep. Sherlock’s eyes widened so slightly it would have been imperceptible to anyone not fluent in the language of the Holmes’; the lad kept his eyes on Sally, as if he needed to make sure she was actually there, he then looked at the manila files and, finally, at Greg.

“Oh”, was all he said. Still standing awkwardly in the small hallway that led to the kitchen and living room. Lestrade suppressed a grin. He hadn’t seen Sherlock rattled in quite some time. Or Donovan, for that matter, who was staring at Sherlock as if he were some alien species that had just fallen from the sky. 

“Where 's John?”, he asked from his chair.

The young man looked at his feet for a second, taking a deep breath before looking back up; resolutely ignoring Donovan.

“Mary and John went to visit Harry for a few days”, he answered, the usual cold, detached tone of his permeating his words. “I was bored.”

“Right”, Lestrade passed his fingers through his short hair, “there’s some tea and ginger nuts in the cupboard, and those mince pies you like in the freezer. You know your way.”

Sherlock didn’t move. His eyes drifted from Sally, to Lestrade, to the door and back again. Greg felt a twinge of sympathy for him, he knew there weren’t many places where Sherlock felt actually comfortable, and this was usually one of them. The kid wouldn’t have come if he hadn’t felt like he needed that comfort, and he had arrived to find Sally. Not that neither Donovan nor himself had known there was to be a late-night visitor, but still, it wasn’t ideal. 

“Or you could shower first, if you want”, he added, his eyes set directly on Sherlock’s, “you’re covered in dirt and God knows what else, I’m sure. It would be nice if you didn’t burn down my couch ‘cus there’s acid or somethin’ on your clothes.”

The other man scoffed, looking away from Greg. Sherlock seemed to hesitate, considering his options; he sneaked a peak at Sally again, sighed, and responded as petulant as ever.

“As long as you don’t have that pathetic excuse for shampoo.”

“This  _ is  _ my flat, you know?”, he fought down a laugh.

“Hardly relevant. Your choice of hygienic products still leaves a lot to be desired”, Sherlock shrugged. 

“Just take a bloody shower”, he muttered, “grab something of mine to change into, it’s alright.”

The youngest Holmes he knew didn’t move. He kept perfectly still, his gaze still drifting to the door. Greg sighed, resting his elbows on the table and rose one corner of his mouth; not enough to make it look like an actual smile, he knew Sherlock wouldn’t appreciate that much. 

“Lad”, he said, gentler this time, “it’s fine.”

Sherlock’s light eyes stuck onto his, searching for something; most likely for any indication Greg didn’t mean the invitation. It took a few seconds before the younger man nodded, deflating noticeably and started down the hall towards Greg’s room. 

The moment Sherlock was out of sight, Sally took wind.

“Holmes comes here often, then?”, she asked, almost as petulantly as Sherlock had asked about the shampoo.

“Not that often anymore, but yeah”, Greg shrugged, keeping things purposely vague, “has for a few years now.”

“I didn’t realize”, she mumbled from her seat. 

Greg side-eyed her; he knew those two would probably never get along, though ever since Sherlock’s disappearance a year ago, there had been a form of civility between them. And by civility he meant absolute ignorance of each other’s presence. Sally didn’t insult him anymore, and so Sherlock didn’t interact with her either, not unless it was necessary. He thought it was preferable to the toddler like squabbling from before. 

Sherlock walked back into the room slowly, clothes in hand. Lestrade recognized the shirt as one from his uni days; the one Sherlock usually borrowed when he spent time there. It was practically his now, ever since that first bout of withdrawal spent on Greg’s couch. 

“Alright?” He asked the kid. The curls on his head shook as he nodded, “well, go on then.”

It seemed to him like Sherlock wanted to say something, something he didn’t feel comfortable saying in current company. Confirming his suspicion, the Consulting Detective looked to Sally with a frown.

“Miss Donovan”, once the greeting was out of the way, Sherlock walked to the bathroom and locked the door. 

An uncomfortable silence stayed in the kitchen after Sherlock was gone. He cleared his throat, going back to his files while Sally got her thoughts in order. All of the sudden, she closed the file she was working on and set it on the top of the pile in front of her; she cleared her throat and turned to him.

“I think it’s best I go home”, she was unapologetic, holding his gaze, “whatever he has to deal with, is not for me to be a part of. And he has something to deal with, I assume.” 

He smiled, once again surprised by how alike those two could be sometimes. Probably part of why they didn’t get along. If they did, though, that would probably be terrifying, so, better as they were. 

“Probably”, Greg passed a hand through his face, rubbing his eyes, “thanks for helping out.”

“Of course, sir”, Sally rose from her seat, putting her things away and walked to the door. She stopped right before opening it and turned back to him, “goodnight, Greg.”

He stayed in his kitchen, now in silence except for the water running in the bathroom. Sally did have a point; there had to be something bothering Sherlock for him to just drop by in the middle of night. There had been a time, years ago, when it was almost a weekly occurrence; a time when a high strung, bruised, shaken twenty-something year old would drop by unannounced and take over the couch, lurking in his kitchen chairs and eating his food until whatever shadow that had been dragging that brilliant mind down went away, or at least diminished enough for the detective to not need a keeper during the night. Then came John Watson, and he hardly had midnight visits at all, just that one time John had been gone a whole week at some conference or another. And then Sherlock had died, and well, Greg had never wished for his lock getting picked so much in his life. Ever since his return, the lad had taken to showing up again; be it because of John’s moving in with Mary, or whatever secrets he knew Sherlock kept from all of them about where he had been and what he had been doing, Greg wasn’t sure. Probably a bit of both. Regardless of why’s and how’s, Greg now took great care in always having at least one tin of ginger nuts in the cupboards. Just in case. 

The water stopped running. He sat there and listened as his guest moved around in the bathroom, opening and closing the cupboard mirror, the running water, and then nothing. No movement, but no materializing either. Greg waited until Sherlock was ready, as he always did. He waited until the kid was ready to talk to him, to indirectly ask for what he needed, to seek help from a crabby Inspector instead of cocaine. He would deliver whatever it was, he always had. 

Finally, after almost five minutes, the door opened and a mop of curls with legs walked into the room. Said mop stopped short once he realized Sally was gone and deflated like a balloon. Lestrade tried not to smile. Tried.

“What?”, Sherlock snapped at him.

“Did you at least try to rein in that hair of yours?”

“It’s not like I have the necessary products here”, in a sulk, the detective landed on the couch, spreading his whole body over it and turning his back to the world, pushing his face against the cushions. 

Greg snickered, getting up and finding that package of sweets for Sherlock to munch on while he ignored life itself. He went ahead and started a new kettle too, this time with the tea Sherlock liked, the really sweet one that gave Greg headaches if he had too much of it.

“What was Donovan doing here”, the man sneered from the couch, “replacing Grace already?”

“Helping me out with some paperwork for the case”, he ignored the barb about his ex-wife as easy as breathing; if Sherlock wanted to rattle him, he would have to do better than that, “you now, to make sure you don’t land your arse in prison.” 

“I could never land in prison”, came the mumbled reply, “that’s what you and my fat git of a brother are for.”

“Glad to be of service.” He served the cups, grabbed the tin and walked to the living room, slapping on Sherlock’s legs so the other man would make way for him to sit. The Consultant curled up much like a cat would. “Here, have some of these, you like them.”

The younger man didn’t move, didn’t even react to him. That wasn’t unusual, but Sherlock not throwing himself at ginger nuts was; they were one of the few foods they could get down him during cases for a reason. Lestrade set down the food and drinks on the small table that separated the chairs from the telly and properly looked at his unexpected guest. Or as properly as he could with half his face hidden away as it was. 

Sherlocks shoulders were tense, all of his back slightly shaking with tied up energy, both his fists and toes were curled where they laid, and though his eyes were closed, Greg could see the stress lines in the skin around them. The stress lines and the dark smudges underneath. 

“Hey”, he called softly, putting his hand on the man’s shoulder. A shoulder that tensed twice as hard at the initial contact, just for a second before relaxing, but it had been long enough, “what’s wrong kid?”

There was no response, just a tighter held back and a further pressed in face at the back of the couch. Now that he was paying attention, he could see the light twitches on the younger face. They seemed unintentional, like the mask he knew Sherlock had perfected so carefully over the years was threatening to break. What the cold facade would reveal to keep hidden, he was almost afraid to know. 

“Sherlock”, he tried again, shaking the shoulder a bit, “talk to me Sunshine.”

“I need”, it was a whisper, so low he hardly caught it at all. 

What do you need, lad?”

“No Graham, I…”, Sherlock swallowed audibly from where he was, eyes still closed. When he spoke again, it was with an old misery he had hoped never to hear again, “ _ I need. _ ”

Greg closed his eyes, squeezing the shoulder he’d gotten a hold of, and took a deep breath. It had been so long since they had been here, so, so long. Sure, there had been that time shortly after John’s wedding, but that had been resolved quickly enough. That hadn’t sounded so much like a twenty five year old sleeping rough in the streets of London. This had. And it broke Greg’s heart.

“Alright”, he squeezed again, “alright. We’ll take care of this, you did right, coming here. It’ll be alright.”

“Alliteration”, the deep baritone murmured. Greg frowned at the non-sequitur.

“What?”

“Alliteration”, he repeated, sounding horribly exhausted, “the sound  _ right _ too many times in one sentence. Alliteration. You do it when you’re nervous, did you know?”

“Oh yeah?”, Greg couldn’t have fought down the smile even if he had wanted to.

“Most people do.”

Lestrade sighed, his hand still on the man’s shoulder. He knew what needed to happen now, what they always did. Distraction. Anything to get the kid out of his head. Greg’s eyes lit up once they settled on the still unfinished piles upon piles of paperwork. Paperwork that should’ve been for Sherlock to fill out anyways. For once, it seemed he had found a way to get the proper help in signing permits and apologies for the most reckless man alive. And keeping said man away from the drugs to boot. 

“Here”, he slapped the long leg nearest to him, “help me out with that paperwork, would you?”

His response was an unsatisfied humm and a declared,

“Boring.”

Greg snorted, slapping the leg again and getting up.

“Yes, well”, he pulled on Sherlock’s shoulder, turning the man on his back, “my house, my rules and all that.”

The grey-blue eyes snapped open, a frown adorning the bone-white face. 

“What?”

“Come on, up you get”, Greg smirked, walking to the table and pointing to Sally’s unfinished set, “you take that pile and I’ll keep on this one.”

When no acerbic comments came, he turned around to find Sherlock standing uncertainly next to the blue armchair. The young man was eyeing the folders warily, his lips curled downwards, nearing a scowl, but not quite right. Nervous, then. Obviously not over filling out paperwork. But the why didn’t matter really, as long as he was able to focus that avid mind on something other than cocaine. 

“Bring the food, and the tea”, Greg said, a softer tone to his voice. He tilted his head, encouraging the detective to follow, “come on.”

Almost hesitatingly, Sherlock grabbed their tea cups and the tin of biscuits, slowly approaching the table. He sat across from Greg, moving the piles Donnovan had placed by another chair earlier and he got to work. Painstakingly, and groaning, and whining, and reminding Greg of why he wasn’t so sorry he hadn’t wound up having those children Grace and he had talked about; but he worked. Closing one file after the other, keeping all important thoughts to himself, but he did it in company, and that was good enough for Greg. More than good enough. As long as he didn’t have to go back to flipping coins with Mycroft to choose who would venture into the back alleys and crack dens looking for a very specific pair of grey-blue eyes. 

He wanted to ask, he really did. He wanted to know what could have possibly brought them back here after so many years of progress. Sherlock’s time away was a part of it, he was sure, perhaps the biggest one, but not the only one. He wanted to ask, but he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t because it wouldn’t be welcomed, because trying to force anything out of Sherlock always made things worse, because when the lad was ready to talk about it, he would find someone and do so. Or at least he hoped he would. Just like he hoped Sherlock knew his lock would always be available for being picked. 

“Stop fussing George”, the younger man drawled, “I’m perfectly aware of my welcome.”

“Yeah?”, Greg couldn’t help but ask, looking into those kaleidoscope eyes, “‘cus my door’s open, whenever. Even if it’s just to be a pain in my arse, that’s welcome. Or for talking”, he held up a hand at the mouth opening up in protest, “only when you want to, if you want to. If not, you can always keep eating my food. That 's fine too.”

“I know”, this time, he didn’t sound so petulant. Not at all. “Thank you.”

The Detective Inspector nodded, going back to his manila file. Sherlock returned to his own, and they both worked in relative silence for the next few minutes, only interrupted by snide remarks about the forenscic’s team and their general idiocy. Remarks Greg fought hard not to find as amusing as he did. He was about to try and scold the younger man -ineffectively, as usual- when said man set his file down with a huff and looked down at his hands. Greg pretended not to see the tapping fingers.

“Do you”, Sherlock cleared his throat, clenching his fists, “do you have any scars, Geof?” 

A rock dropped to the pit of his stomach. Another puzzle piece, he was sure. The younger man had no significant scars, as far as he knew; and he had seen him naked that one time he’d helped him shower in the tub during the worst of the fevers and pains the first time they’d tried to get the lad clean. But then, he hadn’t bathed anyone in the last six years. Since before Moriarty.

“A few”, he pointed at his left bicep, where a criminal had once slashed him with a dirty blade, “nothing too dramatic, but yeah. ‘Course I do, comes with the job.”

The Consulting Detective nodded, hands still wringed together; he took a gulp of tea and started again.

“Do they bother you?”

“At first”, he looked up, recalling the first time he’d seen the ugly cut in the mirror and winced at the forever-damaged skin, “but that stopped with time.”

“How long?”, there was urgency to the question that made Greg reel back, “how long until that stopped?”

He looked at the pale face carefully, watching the new lines appearing on the pinched skin. Scars, then. From his time away; scars that bothered him, bothered him enough to be the first thing on his mind during a danger night. It seemed he would be having a talk with another Holmes very soon. 

“I don’t know, Sunshine”, his chest clenched, wishing he could say something better than that, “one day I just didn’t mind them anymore.”

Sherlock’s shoulders slumped, his whole body seeming smaller. Like this, with an unhappy pout, weak posture and messy hair, he looked a lot like the kid he had met all those years ago. Like a teenager going through that  _ angry at the world _ phase. Except, he wasn’t so sure if for Sherlock it had been so much a phase as a personality trait. A trait that didn’t seem to apply that often anymore, thank God.

“I see”, he muttered under his breath. Then the mask was back in place, his head held high and Sherlock returned to his files. “Thank you for the input, Lestrade. Enlightening, really.”

Knowing the conversation was officially finalised, he went back to his own files, taking a long sip from his now lukewarm tea. Sherlock would share whatever was troubling him, when he needed to. He would; Greg needed to believe that he would. 

They sat around the kitchen in silence after that, working in one another’s company until late hours of the night; or early morning, depending on who you asked. At three fifteen he gave up, closed his folder, closed Sherlock’s folder, and dragged the detective to bed. Or the couch; same thing really. Once he had pulled out the blanket he mentally designated as Sherlock’s many years ago and practically tucked the detective in and ready for sleep, he went ahead and took a shower himself before grabbing a set of pillows and a comforter and settling down on the floor, next to his guest. He ignored all protestations, threw a stern glare, remarked about the annoying tendency some people had of running in the middle of the night into unsavoury streets and went to sleep, experience turning him immune to the angry muttering above him. He was out like a light in minutes.

  
  


Morning came far too early for him. He had a tick on his neck, an ache in his shoulder, and the overall unhappiness of a man his age taking the floor for a mattress. He was getting too old for this. Every day a little more. His brain took a bit longer to come online, and by the time he realized the flat was remarkably quiet for two people, several minutes had passed. He opened his eyes to find the living room empty and Sherlock’s blanket folded over the armrest of an armchair. He cussed, getting up as quickly as physically possible and looking around. No detectives.  _ Damn it.  _

He rubbed his face harshly, possibly leaving a red streak where the sides of his hands had pressed against his cheeks and he walked to the bathroom, finding it disappointingly empty. A cup of tea, then. And a threat, but that came later, along with a visit to both Baker Street and the Diagonese. But one thing at a time. Tea. 

He stopped dead in his tracks as he entered the kitchen, where he found a plate with a single ginger nut placed exactly in the center of it, a still steaming cup of Earl Grey next to it and, under the cup, a ripped off piece of paper with messy scrawl written on it.

_ Thank you -SH _

Greg walked slowly to the table, fearing the steam of the cup would disappear and imply an earlier leave. It didn’t; he’d just missed Sherlock. The man had stayed all night. He hadn’t gone back to an old dealer, not this time anyhow. He was clean. Greg breathed a sigh of relief. 

Now with a slight skip to his step, he went ahead and took his breakfast in hand, setting it down on the table. Sherlock would be fine, the lad needed time, but he would be fine. In the meantime, Lestrade had some paperwork to finish. 

He reached for the file he had left half-finished the night before and took a sip of his fresh cup of tea. With a content sigh, Greg Lestrade bit into the last ginger nut and smiled. 


End file.
